


Goodbyes

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-15
Updated: 2001-03-15
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:19:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Author: Broken Angel  
Title: Goodbyes  
Feedback:   
Webpage: http://araxdelan.tripod.com/BrokenAngel/BrokenAngel.html  
TotalParts: 1  
Status: Complete  
Pairings: M/K  
Rating: Not Rated  
AuthorNotes: Please send feedback! I can't stress this enough... This is a sort of vignette.  
Warnings: If you don't like this kind of thing, go away.  
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX. No profit is being made from this, and I promise to put them back where I found them.

* * *

Every other night we spent together seemed to rush by on silver wings, and the hours we spent in each others' arms vanished with minute-like swiftness. Bars of sunlight seemed to fly, rather than slide, across the floor, and every second was a precious gem that moved out of reach far too quickly.

But tonight, it's different. The space between us, the *emptiness,* is tangible, and the silences between us are filled with uncomfortable pauses rather than a a shared sense of joy. To borrow a cliche, the minutes crawl by like days, and it seems as though we've been here for years, fumbling with each other in the darkness.

Our usual ease together has vanished - there is something between us now, something dark that lurks at the edge of recognition - and each touch is awkward, strange, and frighteningly unfamiliar. Time stretches out, draws itself into the vanishing heat of our dissipating closeness, the hours slipping between the gaps of our contact. We are in a place where the feeling of skin-on-skin, once a haven almost drug-like in its intensity, has become the awkward chill of trespass, an incomprehensible invasion.

I am aware of the desolation between us - the growing absence of feelin - and there is a part of me that wants to shove you away as fast and as hard as I can, to widen the gap and lessen the pain of loss.

And yet... what we've shared, the memory of warmth transforms what could have been merely a growing vacancy into a poignant and knife-sharp reminder of what was. Each moment we spend together, as painful as it may be, as empty and meaningless as it is, still remains precious because it had a chance at becoming something more.

The chill I feel when your hands brush my skin in the darkness merely drives home the value of what I am losing, of what is slipping away as if it had never been.

We meet there, in the cold emptiness of passions remembered, and your hands on me are cold, as is your flesh under my finger-tips. Together, we are automatic, a custom grown old, useless, meaningless, and the name on your lips is mine, but the image in your mind is not.

We finish, shudderingly, achingly, but you do not lie next to me as you used to do. The contented, mutual wonder of after is gone, and even the bitter joy of our hollow, physical passion has vanished. You dress, jerkily, as if you would hide from my eyes. Perhaps you would. You pull on your jacket, the black leather no longer so incongruous to your face and body as it was when you arrived, with motions that seem awkward, almost ashamed. As you moved towards the door, you glance back at me - and I wonder who you see, what I look like to you now. And then, with a fumbling, graceless smile, you toss a sentence at me.

"I'll...see you tommorrow, then." But your words bear the hollow ring of goodbyes, and you know, and I do too, that you won't.

  
Archived: 19:50 03/04/01 


End file.
